The Bloody Flag of Freedom
by TheIbis2010
Summary: Sequel to "No God Above". The revolution succeeds, and France is now a republic led by the secretive Brieux. In this new world, Valjean is all alone, and Javert investigates a harrowing murder...but it is Éponine with the greatest difficulty. As she tries to reclaim her life, she must not only protect those she loves from Brieux, but a handsome stranger named Jean-Baptiste d'Alene.
1. The Turn of the Tide

**June 7, 1832**

**Chapter 1: The Turn of the Tide**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of Victor Hugo's characters, or anything originally from the novel _Les Misérables. _I do, however, own all the original characters that are to come, including the government and political figures, save for King Louis-Philippe. All of the events described here after the June Rebellion of 1832 are purely fictional.  
**

* * *

"_There was assault after assault. The horror continued to increase. Then resounded over this pile of paving-stones, in this Rue de la Chanvrerie, a struggle worthy of the walls of Troy. These men, wan, tatterred, and exhausted, who had not eaten for twenty-four hours, who had not slept, who had but a few more shots to fire, who felt that their pockets empty of cartridges, nearly all wounded...became Titans. The barricade was ten times approached, assaulted, scaled, and never taken...the façade of Corinthe, half demolished, was hideous."_

_-Victor Hugo, Les Misérables._

* * *

"The heavy guns are returning!" Enjolras yelled to his comrades, his voice hoarse from hours of shouting. "Pick off the cannoneers, quick!"

A few feeble shots rang out from the barricade, which only succeeded in slowing down the cannon' procession. It and its twin were moved into place, and the National Guard hurried to stuff it with powder.

Marius would have stopped them, but he had no gun. He'd lost it in the carnage hours ago. Now, almost a day after the real fighting at Rue de la Chanvrerie had begun, he had nothing but a fragmented sword and his fists. He was powerless to hold them back once more.

"I told you when this began!" The commander of the National Guard shouted at the students. "I told you that the cannons would end you! You've succeeded in holding out against the smaller balls, yes; but how about now?"

He gave some orders to his lieutenants, who immediately began loading the cannons with a supply of much larger cannonballs that used before.

"I have not yet heard that the barricade on the Rue du Saint-Jacques has surrendered." The commander said smugly. "How tragic it is that you will be the first to fall."

Marius looked around him, and was gratefully surprised to discover that all of his friends were still standing, albeit disheveled and bloody. But they were still alive, at least. Enjolras, sword in hand, stood by Courfeyrac and Grantaire, while Julien Grosjean, Feuilly and Bahorel made a defensive ring on the steps of the barricade.

He pulled Julien aside. "Where are the others?"

"Inside." He said curtly, and pointed to his family's wine-shop, the Corinthe.

"That's not what I meant. Who are the wounded?"

"Joly and Combeferre were fine last I saw them out here. They've had a more trying day than all of us: fixing bullet-wounds one moment and delivering them the next. When I was last off duty, I noticed that Bossuet was in there as well: bullet to the left shoulder. He'll live, don't worry. My parents and Madame Thenardier are doing their best to comfort the wounded. Azelma's with her brother, I think."

"And Éponine?" Marius asked tenaciously.

"Alive. That's all I can report."

"So she's still in her coma."

"I'm afraid so."

Marius sighed. Two days ago, Éponine Thenardier had told him that she loved him. They must have both known he could never reciprocate her feelings, because he'd told her that same day that he was bound to marry Cosette Fauchelevent instead. Cosette...

She'd been his one comforting thought throughout this living hell. The knowledge that he would see her again, be with her, marry her even; that was what had kept him going.

But that comfort couldn't do much for him now.

Éponine had almost died saving him from a soldier's gunshot. His friend, Jean Prouvaire, had been captured during the night of battle, and no one knew whether he still lived. And now, Marius Pontmercy and all of Les Amis de l'Abaisse were about to blown apart by the National Guard's cannons.

He looked at Julien. "You know we're going to die, right?"

"I do."

"Any regrets? I'm just curious."

"A few. I never made peace with my father for what I said to him yesterday. I never went back to my house in Nantes like I hoped I would. I never even got to see the end of our revolution, though I'm not sure I want to."

He nodded. "Sometimes, it is only before our deaths we discover what we wanted most in life." He told Julien.

His friend smirked. "Who said that?"

"I did. Just now, in fact."

Julien laughed. "You could have become a philosopher." He held out his hand. "Would you do me the honor of dying with me, Pontmercy?"

Marius took it. "The honor's all mine, Grosjean." He raised their hands high, and yelled "_Vive La France!"_

"_Vive La France!_" Echoed the students.

The commander snorted. "You revolutionists and your chants." He motioned to the artillery captain. "I want this spot gone, Pierre. More than that; execrated. Let no man say that he remembers the rebellion of 1832."

The captain nodded, and aimed the cannons directly at the barricade. Marius thought that he could hear Julien softly humming "La Marseillaise" beside him. He wondered if he would die of the cannonballs, the flying debris, or the inevitable bayonets of the National Guard.

He tried to imagine Cosette's face, and when he couldn't, it chilled him to the bone that he would die without remembering what she looked like.

Two seconds before the captain lit the spark, a courier came flying into the Rue de la Chanvrerie, his face flushed and sweaty. "Monsiuer! News from the Hôtel de Ville!"

"What is it?"

"It's been overrun by the insurgents, monsieur!"

The commander's eyes widened in disbelief. "_What? _How could the men at Rue du Saint-Jacques have-"

"I'm not talking about the men of Saint-Jacques, monsieur. If anything, they're having a rousing time beating back your reinforcements, and have no wish to leave their barricade. The Hôtel is now under the control of ordinary Parisian citizens, as well as the Palais-Royal, the Place de la Bastille, the Palais de Justice and a dozen other places. They've risen up in their thousands, just as the insurgents said they would! It's like 1830 all over again! We're receiving reports from the suburbs that peasants from the provinces are flocking to Paris, eager to fight. His Majesty, Louis-Philippe, has ordered an armistice with the two resisting barricades. I've been sent from the Hôtel to give you this missive I carry. It says that you must stop this siege, monsieur."

The commander just stared at the messenger, dumbstruck. He looked at his cannons, then the barricade, then back to the man. He cleared his throat. "Is there anything to this missive? Something to detail the armistice?"

"There is. Take only one of the two, I have to deliver the other to Saint-Jacques."

The commander took a sheet of paper from the courier's saddlebag, scanned his eyes over it for a minute, and pocketed it. "Very well. Godspeed, monsieur."

"Godspeed." The courier kicked his horse with his boot, and sped off down the road. The commander turned his attention back to the barricade. "Who among you is leader?" He called out.

"I am!" Enjolras exclaimed.

"You heard what the Hôtel's messenger said?"

"Yes, I did."

The commander cleared his throat once more. "My new orders are that a proper ceasefire is to be called."

"How, may I ask?"

"One of my subordinates will enter the barricade, declare the terms and begin."

"So, I won't be speaking with you, commander?"

"I? No. I am called to the Palais de Justice, to oversee its surrender." He almost choked on the word "surrender", as though he wasn't accustomed to using the word when talking about himself.

"I would be happy to talk peace with your man." Enjolras politely responded, and Marius noticed how he was trying to mask his pleasure and relief. "Although, I would feel safer if those cannons were no longer aimed at my barricade."

The commander opened his mouth, then closed it, and nodded. He ordered the cannons dispatched, and brought forward a middle-aged soldier in a lieutenant's uniform.

"This is Lieutenant Saunier." He told Enjolras. "He is a worthy man, and I expect him to be treated as an honorable citizen of France when he is with you."

"You have my word he will not be harmed." Enjolras promised.

The commander nodded again, and handed his man the writ, mounted a horse, and sped off in the direction of the Palais de Justice. His lieutenant, Saunier, walked cautiously to the front of the barricade, his hat in his hands. Enjolras ordered the barricade opened, and Saunier entered, to the startling sight of ten pistols pointed at his face.

"Stop that!" Enjolras scowled. "This man has come to talk, not fight. Put your guns away."

They reluctantly did so, and as a show of good faith Saunier removed his pistols from his belt as well.

"Show me the orders, monsieur." Enjolras said.

Saunier grudgingly obeyed, and gazed hard at Enjolras as he read. "I hope you like what you see on that paper, boy. You may well get the republic you've bled so much for, but I assure you; there will be more blood before this is over."


	2. The Necessity of Escape

**A/N: Hello everyone! Sorry about the late update. School has started again (so very exciting), so I can't be on FanFiction nearly as much as I used to. I'm hoping to update this story once a week if I can.**

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Necessity of Escape**

Jean Valjean ran into the Corinthe the moment that Saunier entered the barricade.

Of all the times and places, why did this demon of the past have appear now? When Valjean was faced with loyal, unassuming comrades on one side and the National Guard of France on the other?

Valjean knew a secret that he doubted even the Guards knew. And as far as he could tell, there was no way that he could reveal that he knew it without revealing himself as well.

Gustave Saunier, Lieutenant of the National Guard, was an ex-convict. He and Valjean had served a year together in the same chain-gang at Toulon.

He'd been brought in on some petty crime-Valjean did not care to remember what-but whatever it had been it had been enough to earn him four years in the galleys. That brash, moustached young man had been the bane of Valjean's last year in Toulon, before his release in 1815, even more so than the prison guards. He'd constantly stolen and gorged himself on what little food they were given, snitched on the prisoners, and skipped around, plodded through, or otherwise ignored every scrap of work assigned to him.

All he could do for now was pray that the negotiations between Saunier and Enjolras wouldn't require them to come into the wine-shop where he was hiding. At least not until he could figure out a way to flee the barricade and return to Cosette at Rue Plumet, where she was still packing her things for the Rue de l'Homme Arme. He needn't concern himself with Marius, the boy was in no danger anymore. But he was.

As Valjean looked around, he saw that it was eerily quiet inside the Corinthe. The wounded-some five students and fifteen workers-were laid out on makeshit stretchers of wood and cloth. He saw the younger Thenardier girl, Azelma, beside the beds of her siblings, Éponine and Gavroche, both of whom were asleep.

He walked over to them. "I believe I know this boy." He murmured. "I gave him twenty-francs last winter to buy some food. For himself and his brothers, he told me. And when I got home, I discovered that another five francs were missing from my wallet."

Azelma looked up at him and tried to smile. "Aye, that's our Gavroche; the beggar who thieves." She took her brother's hand and held it tight. "You're Cosette's father, aren't you? The man who took her away?"

Valjean nodded.

"I remember you. Maman yelled at Cosette for playing with my doll, so you went out into the snow and bought her her own."

"That's right. Catharine." Valjean said, the memory returning to him. "That was what she named it."

"Is it true what 'Ponine says about you two? That you live in a large house on the Rue Plumet?"

"We used to, but now we live in an apartment at Rue de l'Homme Arme."

"I wish I could it." Azelma said wistfully. "The house, I mean, not the apartment. I bet it's bigger than any house I've ever seen."

As soon as she said it, Jean Valjean thought of something. "How would you like to?"

She stared at him, perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"I have to leave Rue Saint-Denis," said Valjean. "Immediately. I don't have time to explain why. But if you'd like to, you can take your brother and sister to rest at Rue Plumet. My daughter there packing her things, and my maid as well. They can help you with them, and I'm sure a bed and room in Number 5 is more comfortable than the floor of a wine-shop."

Azelma was still gaping at him like a fish, as though she didn't understand what he was offering. "But why?" She asked. "Why do you want to help us? Out father almost _killed_ you, for God's sake."

Valjean looked down at the sleeping form of Éponine. "Perhaps," he said. "But Cosette told me about Éponine the night she met her again in the garden. You three children have suffered enough. Please, go to Rue Plumet. Your mother can come as well."

Azelma got to her feet and flung her arms around him. "Thank you, monsieur. You are a saint." She whispered in his ear.

He smiled. "I have only met two people in my life who could be called saints, mademoiselle, and I am not one of them." He bade her goodbye, and discreetly avoided walking in front of the window that faced the barricade by exiting through the side-door.


	3. Standing in His Grave

**Chapter 3: Standing in His Grave**

The Corinthe was surrounded by a wall on three sides, and two small cobblestone roads spread out from it to form the Rue de la Chanvrerie and Rue Saint-Denis. The alley Jean Valjean was in was mostly unused, and very sparse save for some scaffolding a sewer grate at the end of the wall on the stone floor. It was also empty, except for one person.

Javert was being held prisoner in this part of the barricade. After the episode he'd caused yesterday in the wine-shop, nobody must have trusted him not to flee, because his neck was secured by a thick rope that hung from the wood of the scaffold. A thin trickle of blood ran down the back of his head from where Gavroche had smacked him with a musket-butt yesterday. His hands were bound, but he wasn't blindfolded, so he could very clearly see Valjean leaving the Corinthe.

"So, Valjean." He said menacingly, his voice hoarse due to the strain of the rope. "We meet again."

Jean Valjean closed the door as quietly as he could before replying "I was about to say the same thing."

"So long as you're here, answer me this." Said Javert. "Have they killed Beauvais, or are they holding him somewhere else?"

"Neither. Enjolras let him go, after an extremely vigorous and dangerous duel."

Javert raised an eyebrow. "Enjolras...that would be their golden-haired leader, no? A radical if ever there was one. But why did he set him free and not me? Are they hoping he'll tell the Prefecture of a ransom for me?"

Valjean shook his head. "Not at all. Enjolras just sent him back with a warning, but he kept you because of your attempted assassination."

Javert grunted. "If that gamin hadn't gotten in the way, it would have been more than attempted." He gestured to a keg of water that lay beside his foot. "Do you mind?"

For whatever reason, Valjean complied, and picking up the jug he allowed Javert several sips of water. He drank deeply, and taking the jug in his hands he downed more.

"You must be thirsty, after being left out here for a day." Valjean commented.

Javert wiped his wet mouth with his sleeve. "I am, but it's not just that. What you see before you is a man taking his last drink on earth."

Valjean has never known Javert to have a sense of humor, but for a moment he wondered whether he was joking. "What are you talking about?" He asked.

Javert sighed. "The revolutionaries have won their rebellion, no? That's why I heard the voice of that slow-minded plodder, Saunier, inside of the barricade."

He nodded, and Valjean wondered for a moment if Javert knew of Saunier's dark past. He decided not to ask.

"Well, then you can imagine how I will be treated by boys like Enjolras." He scoffed. "I am still, in their eyes, some dangerous hybrid of a police-informer, a spy, and an assassin; none of which traits stand in my favor. You can bet I won't be tried by any regular Parisian court, either. I'll be brought before some radical people's tribunal, and declared guilty within five minutes of the trial." He scoffed again, and as he did so, his countenance changed; something Valjean had never seen him so before. For the briefest of moments, the impassive, set mask of justice was gone, replaced by a look of fear and uncertainty.

"I expect that once Enjolras informs Saunier of my attempt on his life, he'll bring me out to the Guards like a pig for slaughter." Javert continued. "I could protest, of course, but the law must be obeyed. My execution will probably be sometime tomorrow afternoon, and my body thrown in an unmarked grave with the rest of the battle's casualties. I always knew one of us would live to see the other fall, Valjean. I just never imagined it being me."

Jean Valjean looked long and hard at his old adversary. A dangerous idea was beginning to form inside his mind. "If you somehow escaped the barricade...would you continue your pursuit for me? Turn me in?"

Javert finished the water, then eyed him suspiciously. "Of course I would. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Valjean said lightly.

But Javert wouldn't let it go. "What are you on about, Valjean?" He demanded. "Because if you think I shall yield now, at the end of the chase-". He stopped, and a steely look of self-satisfaction and pride spread across his face.

"Oh, I see what you're planning." Javert said, his tone cruelly pleased. "Once a thief, forever a thief, I suppose. What you want, you always steal. Oh yes, Valjean, you want a deal. You think that if you let me out of here, I'll simply go away; be a good policeman and remember my debt to you. Well, let me tell you now; I will never stop hunting you, not until you're back in the galleys, for life this time. What you do today and for the rest of your days I do not care, but if you let me go, be warned: you'll still answer to me."

Jean Valjean sighed. Once again, Javert was falling back upon his fatal flaw. He was always assuming the worst about him. What stopped him, what blinded him from seeing that Valjean was just like any other man?

"You're wrong, Javert." He said sadly. "I do not mean to kill you. In fact, at the moment, I want nothing more than to save you."

With that, he wrapped his hands around Javert's nose and neck.

The police officer fought furiously against him, but Valjean refused to relax his grip. As the struggle wound on, Javert began to tire. As he slumped against the post, he managed to choke out the words "You must hate me, if you wish to end me yourself."

Valjean shook his head. "You are wrong again. You always have been wrong. I have never hated you. All these years, you have only been doing your duty as God sees fit. As am I."

He didn't know if Javert had heard him or not, but he removed his vice on his neck as the inspector's eyes closed, and he became very still.

He wasn't dead. As Valjean placed his hand over his heart, he could feel the traces of a pulse, which soothed his fears. He hadn't done that to a man in almost twenty-five years, when he'd helped a prisoner escape by making him appear dead, and crawl out of the cemetary to freedom. But if the old prison trick had worked properly, then Javert would awaken in twenty minutes, with no more harm done to him than a sore throat.

Jean Valjean turned to look behind him. The voices of Enjolras, Saunier and the students had moved into the Corinthe. He would have to be quick to avoid them.

He undid the noose around Javert's neck, and dragged his body over to where the sewer grate lay. Valjean forced it open, and began to push Javert down into it.

The inspector's body fell into the drain with a thud, and immediately began to get dragged away by the scummy water. Valjean was just getting ready to dive in himself, with a voice said inside the wine-shop "_Pardone moi, _Monsieur Enjolras, but I'd like a minute outside to clear my head." And Gustave Saunier stepped out into the alley-way.

Which one of them was more surprised to see the other, Valjean could not say. Saunier simply stared at him, gaping, as a flicker of recognition passed behind his eyes.

Without even thinking about it, Valjean sang in a low, husky voice "working all day and tossing all night!"

Saunier stared at him, dumbstruck, but readily enough he sang back "T-they think we think that wrong is right."

"God's getting our supper ready, and I know it's gonna be big." Valjean continued, his voice rising.

Saunier swallowed. "There's gonna be lots of biscuits, and I hope He's got a pig."

The two men stared at each other with equal parts wonder and apprehension. At length, Valjean spoke."We sang that song every hour, on the hour, every day from Toulon to Corsica. Don't you remember? And once we got to the Corsican mines, we just kept on singing, since you said that it was better to sing than to die."

Saunier scowled. "How do you know that, and this song as well?"

"Because in 1814, we served together on the _Gorgon_. And God help me if you weren't the meanest-spirited creature Toulon had ever seen inside its walls."

Now Valjean could tell that he was becoming unhinged. He might even begin to wonder just who he was talking to.

This was confirmed when Saunier asked "Who the hell are you?"

Valjean couldn't help grinning. He still lied so poorly. "You know, Saunier. Say my name, why don't you."

"Do I?" Saunier demanded. "I don't have a clue who you are-"

"Yes, you do." Valjean cut in. "I'm the bread-thief. I'm the man who served nineteen years in Toulon."

Saunier snorted. "Bull. No man's ever served more than fifteen in the galleys, unless it's a life sentence."

"Are you sure?" Valjean asked coyly.

Neither of them spoke.

"That's right. Now, say my name."

Saunier hesitated for just a moment before saying "Jean Valjean."

Valjean nodded. "Damn right." And he hurled himself into the sewer.


	4. Here Among the Sewer Rats

**Chapter 4: Here Among the Sewer Rats**

It is was when Jean Valjean got his foot stuck in the sludge, and the body of Javert slipped from his shoulder and into the muck with a _thunk!_ that he at last began to wonder whether this was a good idea. **  
**

He was ankle-deep in foul water and human waste, exhausted and lost in the dark, dragging an unconscious two hundred pound man on his back who wanted to have him arrested.

There was so much wrong with this scenario that it seemed almost logic to leave Javert behind and continue alone. Saunier wasn't going to report his whereabouts to the police, after all. He was too much of a coward, for one thing, and if he did report him then there was nothing stopping Valjean from exposing _his_ dirty little secret. What was Fate trying to tell him, by continuously, laughingly intertwining his destiny with that of this man?

That Javert was going to die, killed by the same government he'd spent his life defending; he needed to be saved from such an inglorious death. And Jean Valjean, as ironic as it was, was the only person who could save him. He was Jonah, and he must find his way through the Whale.

So Valjean shook his foot free of the sludge, took up Javert once more, and continued through the labyrinth of the Parisian sewer.

* * *

Some time later-minutes, or perhaps hours-Jean Valjean came before a large stone arch. The arch had been built to hold the gate of the sewers, and relief flooded him. He cared not where in Paris he entered or who might see him; anything was worth the risk to be rid of the sight and the smell of the sewers.

He placed Javert against the dark, wet stone wall and pushed at the gate. It didn't open.

Now suddenly fearful, he tried again, harder this time. Still the iron gate did not budge.

Was this the end of it? Valjean did not have the strength to turn back and return to the barricades, and he certainly couldn't bring Javert with him. And even if he did start the return journey, what would happen when the inspector awoke, in an underground sewer all alone? He'd die, most likely, and Valjean, worn down by a second trip through the pit, would join him.

It was the end for them both, caught up in the grim cobweb of death. He sank down to the floor beside the motionless form of Javert, and started to weep silently. Nothing, after all the years of hopelessness and waste, could compare with the anguish he felt now.

He did not waste any more time thinking of himself or Javert. He thought, as Marius must have, of Cosette.

* * *

As Jean Valjean sat in both darkness and despair, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A man's low voice said:

"We'll go halves".

Valjean was so baffled he thought he was dreaming. He stood up, and when he looked, he could see that there was not only a man, but three.

They were a foul-looking trio, all barefoot and clad in smocks to keep the waste off their already dirty clothes. They carried their shoes in their hands, which explained why Valjean had not heard them coming. And while their appearance was unexpected, he knew instantly who they were: three of the criminals that had joined Thenardier in his robbery four months ago. One of them was huge, black-bearded and strong, another bald and the third was short and ruddy-faced.

Despite his astonishment, Jean Valjean was too accustomed to suprises and too worn out to lose his self-control at the appearance of these men. In any event, their prescense could not possibly worsen his current predicament. But by way of reply, he asked "What do you mean?"

The bald one snorted. "You want to get out of this hell hole, right? You can't unlock the door. So we'll go halves."

"But what do you mean?" Valjean repeated.

"My titanic friend here has a key." Said the bald man, and he elbowed the big man. "Show him, Gueulemer." And Gueulemer produced a large key from his pocket.

"You've killed a man," the bald man went on, gesturing to Javert. "I don't know who you are, but I'm willing to help you."

Now Valjean understood. This man assumed him a murderer.

"Listen, my friend." Gueulemer said. "You won't have killed that man without looking in his pockets first. Give us half of what he's got, and we'll unlock the gate for you."

Jean Valjean could have laughed. Where God had failed him, these three scoundrels were going to rescue him and Javert.

"Now, Brujon, bring out the rest of it." The ruddy-faced one told the bald man.

Brujon reached into the bag he kept on his shoulder, and brought out a rope and a large stone. "We'll give you these too. You'll need them."

"For what?"

"Fool! You'll have to drop the body into the river once you get out."

"If it's all the same with you, I'll carry it with me." Valjean said firmly.

Brujon looked surprised at this strange preference, but shrugged. "Not my business if you want to drag a corpse through Paris." He said carelessly. "Just dig into your friend's pockets and give half of what you find to Babet here."

Mechanically, Jean Valjean knelt beside Javert (who was still mercifully out cold), and brought out all the money he could find on his person. He handed it to Babet, the third man. It couldn't have amounted to more than forty francs and six sous.

"You didn't kill him for much, did you?" Babet scowled as he inspected the money. He was pocketing the money when he noticed the glint of white on Javert's overcoat. "Say, what's that?" He asked Valjean.

Jean Valjean tore it off the jacket and looked at it. It was a star-shaped medal, decorated with a small fleur-de-lis in the center and painted black and gold. What it meant and what it stood for, Valjean had no idea.

"We'll take that too." Said Brujon.

Valjean complied, and gave Babet the medal.

"Well pal, you better get out." Babet laughed. "It's a fare just like any other: you leave when you pay. Gueulemer, open the gate for our comrade."

Gueulemer shouldered past Valjean and unlocked the gate. Valjean lift Javert up again, and began to walk towards the patch of sunlight. Then he paused, and turned back towards the trio of criminals. "Why are you three down here anyway?" He asked. "Is it some sort of refuge?"

Babet shook his head. "We came down here for the spoils of war." He glumly. "We were hoping that once the King won, the National Guard would flush all of the dead down here, hopefully with some change in their pocket."

"Claquesous went up yesterday to inspect the barricade." Brujon added. "He still isn't back yet."

Valjean remembered hearing of the death of Le Cabuc, and he couldn't help grinning. "Nor, I doubt, will he ever return." He told them. "Good day."

He continued taking the last steps to freedom, leaving the crooks behind. Within a few minutes of trudging through the last bit of waste, bright sunlight streamed into his eyes.

Jean Valjean was outside at last.

* * *

Inspector Francois Beauvais could have expected no greater surprise on that turbulent day of June 7 than a man covered in sweat and mud to enter the Paris Prefecture, carrying the body of Javert like a sack of potatoes.

"Mon Dieu," He swore, and ran out from behind the desk to help the stranger. They placed the equally dirty Javert upon one of the large leather armchairs."He's alive!"

The man nodded. "When he wakes up soon, he'll be just as surprised as you are."

"Is there anything I can do for you, monsieur, for saving the inspector's life?" Beauvais asked. After Enjolras had let him leave the barricade, he'd expected Javert to be executed by sundown. And yet here he was, brought back home by a stranger. Whoever he was, he deserved some reward.

The stranger looked ready to decline, then paused. "I could use a fiacre." He said mildly. "I have to get home, see my daughter. And I have...someone else whom I must attend to."

Beuavais nodded. "The Prefect has his own private carriage. It's the first one you can see out front. It's a carosse, but it should do fine. Just tell the driver where you want to go, and he'll bring you there."

The man nodded, and turned to leave, but Beauvais grabbed his arm to stop him. "Monsiuer, when Javert awakens...who should I tell him it is who brought him here?"

He thought about it, and answered darkly. "If Javert knew the truth, he wouldn't believe it. But tell him that it wasn't a stranger nor God who brought him back; it was the Angel of Darkness." And with that, the man exited the Prefecture, and stepped casually into the carosse.

"Number 5, Rue Plumet." He told the driver. "Bring me home."


	5. Venus and Proserpina

**Chapter 5: Venus and Proserpina**

The first thing that Éponine was conscious of was the fading echo of a kindly voice: "_...a far better rest...than you have ever known._"

She straight up and cried out "Don't go!"

"Well, all right." A familiar voice said lightly, surprised. "I wasn't planning on leaving anyway."

Éponine turned her head toward the voice, and for a moment wondered if she was still asleep. Sitting in a chair beside her bed, smiling at her by way of greeting, was Cosette. And as if that wasn't odd enough, Azelma was sitting right next to her, looking anxiously into her sister's face.

Cosette, who had spoken, now asked "How are you feeling, Éponine?"

She felt her shoulder, and winced. "Like I've just been kicked in the chest by a mule. A particularly stubborn one."

"Well, considering what you've been through, it's a small miracle you're not worse." Azelma said. "Joly told me that the bullet went straight through your right shoulder, missing your lung by only a few inches. He's stitched you up now, so you'll be feeling better soon enough."

Éponine lowered the sleeve of her dress, and brushed her hand over the gauze stitches the medical student had sewn. "I suppose I will." She murmured. Then she noticed what she was wearing. Not her dirty grey and brown dress and corset, surely. It was a white linen night-dress, as light as a feather and cleaner than anything she'd ever seen in her life. She looked around more, and almost gasped. She was a small bedroom, with flowers painted on the pink walls and the sunlight streaming in through the open window. Her bed was massive and comfortable, and the blankets were almost impossibly soft.

"Where am I?" She asked, gaping. "And how did I get here?"

Cosette smiled. "The first question I can answer; you're in my bedroom. Papa's still at the barricade, and Toussaint's gone out, and since I won't be needing this room soon your sister and I decided to let you rest in here, after she brought you into the house."

"But where am I?" Éponine demanded, but she already knew the answer. "This isn't...Rue Plumet, is it?" She asked, her voice faltering.

Azelma nodded. "Monsieur Fauchelevent, Cosette's father, told me that I could take you from the barricade and bring you here instead. Julien helped me bring you and Gavroche from the Rue de la Chanvrerie to here. You've been asleep ever since you got shot, which was almost two days ago."

Éponine put a hand to her forehand, trying to decipher what her sister was saying. She had been in a coma for _two days_? And what had she said about their brother? "Gavroche is here too?" She asked. "Why, what happened to him?"

"Well..." Azelma began, then broke off. She took a breath, and said again "Well, he got hurt at the barricade. After Maman and the Grosjeans came back to the Corinthe, Marius showed you to them, and Gavroche as well. He was so upset by your injury that he climbed to the top of the barricade and shot at three soldiers, before they returned fire." She sighed. "He got off even luckier than you. He got hit in the arm, and Joly had to drug him with opium to make him sit still as he dug around for the bullet.

"He woke up just after the National Guard surrendered, and he was all to willing to leave the Corinthe for Rue Plumet. Julien carried him in his arms, same as I carried you. Then, once Cosette and I got you settled in bed, Julien left. Back to the barricade, maybe, or the Hôtel de Ville to join the revolutionaries. Gavroche is downstairs in the kitchen, making his way through M. Fauchelevent's cupboard."

Éponine couldn't help but laugh. Only Gavroche, her irrepressible little brother, would think of eating supper after having been shot. But when she did, her laughter broke into a fit of coughing.

Cosette sprang from the chair and eased her back into bed. "Try not to talk too much." She soothed. "You must have a lot of questions, but I'm afraid they'll have to wait. Papa will be home soon, so just try to rest until then."

Éponine tried not to scowl at her former foster-sister. With her wavy blonde hair and endearing smile, she was the very image of beauty and innocence. Who else but she would offer compassion to the ragged gamine who'd once mistreated her, who'd interfered in her romance, who'd...who'd...

Who'd loved her fiancé. And perhaps, since she was still alive, loved still.

Reluctantly, she laid her head back on the pillow, and tried to fall back asleep. When she did, she dreamed of a beautiful young woman, who looked like Cosette but wasn't, and whom she had met before. It was Fantine.

Éponine wanted to call out to her, to speak with her, but her voice wouldn't work. She had no way of communicating with her ethereal friend.

The angel smiled sadly at her, and said in a foreboding voice, "_Your test comes soon, Éponine. Will you choose to hold on to your dream...or will you give it up?_"


	6. In a Crowd of Bees and Blue-flies

**A/N: My dear readers, please allow an amateur French historian to bore you for a moment (that being me). **

**So, the government of Louis-Philippe's July Monarchy fell in 1848: sixteen years after the events described in ****_Les Miserables_****. Although in this story the July Monarchy is ending sixteen years earlier, with the "victorious" June Rebellion, please forgive me if the historical accuracy and probability of this ****and other chapters to come seem a little off.**

**Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this newest chapter, and be sure to favorite and follow my story! Favorites and follows are like cupcakes: you enjoy them. :) **

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**Chapter 6: In a Crowd of Bees and Blue-flies**

"You know," Julien told them, trying to sound casual. "If the Parliament votes to dethrone the king, then they'll almost certainly vote for the creation of a republic."

Enjolras snorted. "True, but that will never happen. Louis-Philippe may be a liberal, but he will not sit patiently as he deposed by radicals. He will abdicate his seat, and likely emigrate too, to let Lafayette, Mouton and the rest sort out this mess."

As the blonde student continued to argue with the Grosjean boy about the likelihood of this and that, Marius twirled his hat on his finger, his mind elsewhere. Once the Rue de la Chanvrerie had calmed down, Saunier had offered some advice for Enjolras: to go to the Hôtel de Ville and speak with the chief of the Saint-Jacques barricade, who had captured the building after securing his barricade. The site was now under the control of the French Parliament, where they were now in council with none other King Louis-Philippe, deciding on the easiest and cleanest way to take his crown off his pear-shaped head.

"_There are two kinds of people in the Hôtel de Ville"_, Saunier had warned them. "_Those who are buzzing around like worker-bees, collecting the latest intelligence about the state of the provinces, and those who are simply waiting to step out and feed off the rewards like flies. Pray that your chief is not one of the latter._"

'_I'm praying, Saunier, but that's not giving me an answer._' Marius thought glumly. All of the Amis were currently riding through the various Parisian neighborhoods-Picpus, Saint-Antoine, Saint-Michel, Saint-Germain, Les Halles, Montparnasse, the Latin Quarter even the Ile de la Cite-helping to end the revolution and unite the people in support of a new republic. Marius and Julien, however, were waiting in a crowded hall with Enjolras for a man they had never seen and whose name they didn't know.

After a while, a man came up to them and announced that Monsieur Brieux was ready for them.

"So that's the chief's name?" Julien asked. "Brieux?"

"It is, monsieur." Said the man stiffly. "Although Monsieur le Consul would prefer not to be address simply as "the chief". He is the chief of a barricade no longer."

Enjolras frowned. "How can this man be a consul? Is France not still a monarchy?"

"The July Monarchy, that Bourbon bastardy, was absolved almost twenty minutes ago, monsieur. Louis-Philippe has abdicated, and Monsieur Brieux and two of his associates are named the three Consuls of the French Second Republic. Now, come this way."

And so they were led, awestruck, to meet the man who was now a ruler of France.

"The last time France was a consulate republic, it didn't end too well." Julien whispered.

"The past can't repeat itself, Julien." Enjolras said quietly. "Brieux and these two other men are by no means a new Lebrun and de Cambacérès. Nor a young Bonaparte, either." He added, with a quick look to Marius. "Focus on the future, my friends: France is a republic once again, and it promises even greater glory than the days of Rome."

"I'll believe it when I see it." muttered Marius.

Their escort brought them to a new hallway, and opened a huge wooden door. Marius thought they were going to the great room where Parliament sat, but he was wrong. It was a small, square office, with whitewashed walls and a small desk. Sitting imperiously on three large chairs before them was a trio of men. The one on the right was shorter than the other two, with a short, wiry gray beard and thinning black hair. The one on the left was older than both of his companions and beardless, with hair the color of frost. And the one in the middle was fierce-looking, with a close-cropped, coppery-colored beard and short brown hair.

Two men in police uniforms were standing in front of them with their backs turned, talking with them. They turned at the sound of the door opening, and Marius instantly recognized their faces.

One of them was Beauvais, the spy Enjolras had set free.

The other was Javert. The escaped prisoner.


	7. The Rose's Surrender

**A/N: Sorry about the long delay everyone! First I lost over half of the document (Take it from me, you should really press the Save button. A lot.), and then an avalanche of homework and studying happened, but here it is! Chapter 7! Read, enjoy, and review! I do not own the song excerpt used in this chapter.**

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**Chapter 7: The Rose's Surrender**

"Would you like some more beef, Gavroche?" Cosette asked her brother.

He nodded eagerly. "Yes, mademoiselle."

Cosette smiled, and floated back into the kitchen. She lifted one of the large knives from the block with ease, and began effortlessly chopping up the meat placed on the cutting board. Once that was done, she began to pepper it with the varying spices in the cupboards. Éponine couldn't help but watch in amazement. She admitted, she had rarely taken Cosette seriously for anything, but she couldn't deny that she was quite the chef.

Azelma, who was sitting with the two of them at the table, asked "This is quite the reverse of the old days, isn't it? We used to throw you our scraps, and now you're serving us freshly cooked beef."

The blonde girl laughed infectiously. "Well, I don't mean to pass on my ill fortunes to you, trust me. And really, Azelma, it isn't entirely your fault; your parents were the ones who created the system. You get to play; I to work. You get the hugs; I get the beatings. Did you know, I once made up a rhyme on how I felt about my life back then?"

Azelma shook her head.

"Would you like to hear it?"

"Do you remember it?"

"Every word."

She nodded.

Cosette paused, gathering her thoughts, and then recited from memory:

_I do as I am told._  
_Exactly as I'm told._  
_I don't sulk or complain,_  
_I put up with the pain _  
_And the shouting _  
_And the pouting _  
_And the blows._  
_I duck it on the chin._  
_And sometimes on the shin._  
_So my bruises are sore,_  
_I don't know how much more _  
_I can take before I break somebody's nose!_

Gavroche gave a small round of applause, and Azelma let out a light laugh. "Not bad, for an eight-year old." She chuckled. "You didn't really mean to break somebody's nose, did you?"

"I must admit, I considered your mother a few times." Cosette replied, grinning. "I imagined her crumbling at the impact of my tiny fist, like Goliath being struck by David's stone. But the practical side of me won out, saying that if I did, things would get much, much worse."

"Thank God for your practical side, then." said Éponine. "Because if you _did_ break Maman's nose, you'd probably have lost a few fingers."

The three girls laughed, which felt good. They'd spent their early years together in jealousy and vanity, and then their adolescent years apart in comfort and poverty. Now that they were reunited again, Éponine hoped that she and her sister could be friends with Cosette, or at least get long amiably.

She deliberately ignored all thoughts of Marius as this ideas passed through her head.

The laughter died down, and Azelma asked Cosette what had been on both her and Éponine's mind for a long time. "Cosette? I still don't understand...why are you helping us? Why is your father being so generous? He doesn't even know us."

"Because..." Cosette began, then she stopped. Whatever her answer was, she didn't want it to sound like a formality. She thought for a moment, then said "Because in all the years I've known him, my father has never turned away from anyone in need. He gives without asking and keeps little for himself, but he denies nothing to me. I don't know how else to answer your question, Azelma. All I can say is that my father is acting upon his own talents."

"Speaking of talents," Éponine interjected, nodding at the cutting knife in Cosette's hand. "Where on earth did you learn to use a cleaver?"

"The nuns at Petit-Picpus gave all us girls a few lessons on how to manage a house." She said matter-of-factly. "But mostly Toussaint's been teaching me lately on how to cook. I'm not very good, I must say; all I can manage is a bit of toast, cold soup and some rotten beef."

"_Rotten_ beef?" Éponine said incredulously. She pointed at her brother's sumptuous meal. "Cosette, when we lived in Montfermeil, this was a regular supper for us. A year ago, Papa would take a horse's kidney and a cat's liver, mix it in a mincer and pretend that _that _was beef. Please, don't insult yourself by calling your food "rotten".

Cosette opened her mouth to reply, but before she could the doorbell rang, and she ran to see who it was.

"Papa! Is that you!" She called, still running.

From the kitchen, Éponine could a man's voice say wearily "Yes, Cosette, it's me. Please, open the door, I am very tired."

Cosette obeyed, and she gasped audibly. "Papa! What in the world...?"

Intrigued, Éponine went to the front door, followed closely by her siblings. They reached the door, and were all three of them as astounded as Cosette. If Éponine had not vaguely remembered M. Fauchelevent-from Montfermeil and the Rue Plumet-she would have guessed this to be a completely different man. His clothes were filthy and smeared with mud, his hair dirty and matted, and there was a peculiar foul smell that clung to his body.

"Mon Dieu, monsieur." She breathed. "Are you all right?"

He looked at her, and let out a sight of relief. "Oh, good, you're here. Are you feeling better, Éponine? Has your injury healed?"

"Never mind about me, monsieur! What happened to you, and your clothes!"

"Oh." He attempted to wipe a few flecks of mud off his shoulder. "Just a small inconvenience on my trip back from the barricade."

Cosette laughed shakily. "Go upstairs and change your clothes. Tomorrow's going to be a big day, and I don't want you smelling as though you've walked through a sewer."

Monsieur Fauchelevent gave an odd grin, but obeyed. Azelma went back to the kitchen for Gavroche, and Éponine was about to follow her when Cosette took hold of her shoulder. "Éponine? Could I speak with you for a moment?"

After hesitating for only a moment, Éponine went with her. Cosette led her up the stairs and into her pink-walled bedroom. Éponine sat down in one of the wooden chairs uneasily, and Cosette took her place next to her.

They tried to talk aimlessly about trifling matters for a while, but within a few minutes Cosette brought up the subject that was both weighing on their minds. "So, Éponine; Marius and I are going to be married soon."

She tried not to remember how she had last reacted to that news, and simply nodded. "Have you thought about a date yet?"

"We're hoping for July 14th."

"Bastille Day?"

"Yes. It was Marius's idea; he likes the idea of a dual celebration, both historical and personal."

Éponine just nodded again. Cosette chewed her lip, and said carefully "Éponine...I know how you feel about Marius."

She felt as thought she had just been slapped. "_What?_"_  
_

"Two days ago, Marius told me what passed between you two in the Gorbeau tenement. He was...very distraught, actually. He may not love you the way you want him to, Éponine, but please do not underestimate his concern and affection for you. He wanted to search for you before he had to leave for the barricades, but there was no time. And he also made me swear that if you were alive, that I would never tell you that I know about that night of the fourth."

"Then why are you speaking about this?" Éponine demanded. Even the mere mention of the heartbreak three nights ago made her dizzy. Even now, after grief and pain and almost death, she remembered every word that she and Marius had spoken to each other. She remembered all too vividly the flight from the tenement, and the slow, agonizing clashing of her conscience that almost drove her to jump off a bridge.

"Because I need to know." Cosette insisted. "Marius is my one true love, I will never deny that, but the presence of an unrequited lover will forever weigh upon our happiness. Can you imagine, Éponine, knowing that another woman loved your husband as deeply as you did, and that the only way to ease her pain was to give up the person who meant most to you, and you to him? Before I marry him, I must know this; do you still love Marius?"

Éponine opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. After all that had happened recently, did Cosette really expect her to answer that question easily, much less correctly? She had just spent four months pining for a man she could never have, both aiding and sabotaging his relationship with a woman she envied more than anyone. She may never have Marius now, but this was her chance; all she had to do was say "yes", and the eternal bliss of Marius and Cosette would be forever tainted by that one word. Their blessed romance would mutate into an unhappy love triangle.

It was so easy to deny Cosette her great joy...a final act of revenge for having all that Éponine longed for. For a few moments, she toyed dangerously with the idea of saying yes, and it seemed that that was what she would do.

But then she remembered what she'd told Marius right before she fainted: "_Marry Cosette for me, would you? Then, if I die, I'll know that you'll be happy..._" To her surprise, she found that when she'd said those words, she'd actually meant them. She may not be dead, but that didn't mean that Marius couldn't still be happy.

She shook her head decisively. "No, Cosette. I do not. In fact," she said ponderously. "I don't think I ever loved him as a man half as much as I did an idea; the idea of a world that's full of happiness that I have never known."

Cosette beamed, and throw her arms around her and hugged her tight. "Thank you, Éponine."

She couldn't help smiling back. "Of all the words I imagined you saying to me, those two were the least likely."

The blonde girl smiled again, and asked in a hurry "Now that that's over, I have a request I want to ask you. Would you come to the wedding?"

Éponine narrowed her eyebrows. "You mean, _your _wedding? With Marius?"

She nodded eagerly. "We would never have met again if not for you, and you and Azelma deserve to be there as much as anyone. Will you please come?"

"Yes. I will." She said firmly. She didn't even give it a second thought.


	8. A New Kind of Order

**Chapter 8: A New Kind of Order**

Javert looked smugly at Enjolras, obviously enjoying the look of surprise and anger on his face. "Monsieur Enjolras," He said coolly. "I am pleased to meet you again, under much more pleasant circumstances."

"How the hell did you escape the barricade?" Enjolras said hotly.

"I can honestly say I don't know." Said Javert, his tone still unnervingly polite. "By one way or another, I was spirited out of your barricade, and awoke back in the Prefecture, with no greater harm to my person than an unusual amount of mud on my trousers." He smiled smugly. "The news of my return was a very welcome surprise for my superiors. As soon as Monsieur Clarencieux," He gestured to the man on the right. "Got word of my rescue, he had Inspector Beauvais bring me immediately to the Hôtel."

"And why would he do that?" Julien asked.

"Because," said Beauvais, his smile identical to Javert's. "Until this afternoon, Monsieur Clarencieux was the Parisian Prefect of Police. He and Inspector Javert have known each for almost ten years, and Monsieur le Consul would understandably want to see his old friend."

Silence fell upon the group, the three men still staring at them like hawks around a possible meal. Marius glanced at Enjolras, and he could almost see the cogs turning inside his head. He didn't need to speak to voice what Marius was thinking as well: Javert now had an ally in the executive branch of the new Republic. That was highly unlikely to work in their favor to convict Javert as an attempted murderer.

"Monsieur le Consul," Enjolras began. "There is something I must tell you. Yesterday, at the barricades-"

"Yes, yes." Said the man on in the middle, waving his hand dismissively. " The Inspectors have already told us the tale of Monsieur Javert's actions, monsieur..." He paused for a name.

"Enjolras." He said curtly.

"Enjolras." The brown-haired man repeated, as though trying to place the name. "You wouldn't be a relative of the Enjolras family of La Rochelle, would you?"

The revolutionary looked almost taken back by the question. Then, he answered in a small voice "I am. My parents are Jean-Paul Enjolras and Lucille de Avignon."

The man raised his eyes in admiration. "And you are their son the lawyer, aren't you? I might have known. What's your name, my young friend?"

Enjolras bit his lip in hesitation, but in a quick recital he said "Louis Antoine Léon, monsieur."

"After Saint-Just, I take it?"

"Yes. My father's uncle served with Saint-Just in the Committee of Public Safety during the Terror, and the two were good acquaintances, until the guillotine claimed them both in '94."

"And who was your uncle, then? Not Robespierre himself, surely?"

"No. My uncle was Camille Desmoulins."

The man laughed delightedly. "If rule of the Republic was hereditary, my lad, you'd be sitting where I am now. But anyway, back to the subject at hand: I have been given a full description of the event to which you are referring: Inspector Javert's attempt on your life. Well, if Emil has told me correctly, Monsieur Javert was not authorized in his mission to take any lives while undercover at the barricade, and thus it is not our job to judge it. He was been reprimanded, of course, but minimal belligerent action will be taken against him. I hope you don't mind."

"Not all, monsieur." Enjolras said fiercely. "But I must convey my disappointment at the Republic's ability to deal with criminals." He shot Javert a furious look, and glared at the consul with contempt before turning around and exiting the chamber. Julien followed him out.

The consul sighed. "That, my friends, was a young man realizing that his dreams are not all he imagined them to be."

"Happens to all." The white-haired man said gruffly. "Hell, it happened to us."

The middle man nodded, and fixed his attention now on Marius. "And who are you?" He asked quizzically.

"Marius Pontmercy, Monsieur le Consul. I am a friend of Enjolras's. I fought under him at Rue de la Chanvrerie."

"_Under _him, you say?" The man echoed. "You mean to say that young Louis Antoine was the leader of the barricade?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, isn't that something." The consul said mildly. "Twenty-three years old and the leader of one of the two only untaken barricades. I'm over twice his age, and we both held our ground."

It suddenly dawned on Marius who he might be speaking to. "You are Brieux?" He asked in wonder.

"I am indeed. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I am Maurice Brieux, consul of the French Second Republic. This is my colleague, Guillaume Renard, a companion of mine at Rue de Saint-Jacques and a member of the National Assembly." He pointed to the white-haired man. "And you already know Emil Clarencieux, the former Prefect of Police."

"It's an honor to meet you, monsieur." Marius babbled. He was silently thankful that he hadn't said anything stupid in front of the consul. Or rather, anything at all.

"Thank you. Now, if you don't mind, Monsieur Pontmercy, we have some business to finish with the inspectors."

"Of course, monsieur. Good day, monsieur. "And, flustered and slightly embarrassed, Marius dashed out of the chamber to join his friends outside.

* * *

"They're green boys, the lot of them." Renard said flatly. "They may have won their Republic, but they don't have a damn clue how to run it. They usually chop off the heads of those who do."

"Now now, Guillaume." Brieux scolded. "The world fixes its gaze on green boys and untested men. Who would have said in 1757 that Robespierre, a quiet, unpromising student at Louis-le-Grand, would later become the titan of the century?"

Not wanting to suffer through any more of the consuls' banter, Javert stepped forward. "I beg your pardon, monsieurs, but I would like to make that request you gave to me earlier."

"A request that was neither earned nor needed." Renard said. "You know perfectly well that you would not be punished for your attempt, Javert, and yet you asked us to press an inquest against the affair, in return for a "favor". So, here we are, waiting with bated breath: what is it you want? A promotion? A raise?

Javert smiled politely. "Monsieur Renard, I ask nothing for myself in terms of value or status. My request is that I want to make an arrest."

"Of whom, may I ask?"

"An ex-convict living here in Paris. He broke his parole long ago, and has been living a fugitive life for years. I have tracked him down at last, and I want to see him incarcerated. He lives on Rue Plumet, Number 55."


	9. The Poet's Tale

**A/N: Hello, everyone! Prepare to become totally bombarded with Jean Prouvaire feels! I do not own the song, or "poem", that Prouvaire writes over the death of his friends.**

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**Chapter 9: The Poet's Tale**

"I still don't understand it." Enjolras said . "Javert goes missing while negotiations are happening with Saunier, but it could not have been Saunier who released him: when he came back into the Corinthe after an adjournment, he exclaimed that Javert had gone. The rope binding him had not been cut, and no one had seen him or any accomplice fleeing through the Rue Saint-Denis. And five hours later, he's staring down at me with that insidious, arrogant face of his, having a meeting with the three new rulers of France, one of whom happens to be his former superior."

"Not mention that he completely embarrassed you in front of said rulers." Bahorel added. "And that he will not, at any time, hang for his crime. You have to admit, the man has luck."

Grantaire chuckled, and tapped his glass against Bahorel's. "Amen to that, brother."

The sun was setting on that titular day of June 7, 1832, and Enjolras had gathered all the Amis in the Cafe Musain for a small meeting. They exchanged different news and different stories about the fall of the monarchy across Paris, and how people came in by the thousands from the provinces to aid their countrymen. It all sounded very grand to Marius, and much more exciting than having to meet Javert again.

Enjolras glared at the skeptic. "If you hadn't tossed the last of your scotched brains into a bottle years ago, Grantaire, than you might consider the gravity of the situation. With Clarencieux as his ally, what kind of authority do you imagine Javert, who surely hates every member of the ABC Society, could or would wield against us?"

"I don't know." Said a new voice. "And to be honest, Enjolras, for once I really don't care what you're saying."

All nine of the students turned their heads at once to look at a figure standing in the doorway of the Musain. It was a young man, dressed in torn, bloody clothes with a rosette pinned on his chest. His hair was wild and unkempt, and he walked with a slight limp as he entered the bar.

It was Jean Prouvaire.

Enjolras stood up in astonishment. "Jehan!"

Marius was just as amazed. With all that had happened, they had shamefully forgotten what might have become of the young romantic, captured by the National Guard at the barricade the day before. Since the revolutionaries had won, those captured and not killed must have been set free, but that didn't explain why it had taken Prouvaire all day to be released.

He blatantly ignored his friends, and staggered tiredly up to the bar. "Whiskey." He ordered in a monotonous voice. "Mon Dieu, I'd kill for a whiskey."

Bernard, the barkeeper, got him a drink, and he downed half the glass in an instant. He sighed in satisfaction, and then turned around to look at them.

He wasn't any better up close. He had a cut lip, scabbed hands, and his left eye was so swollen it was almost shut.

Marius stared in horror at the poet. "What happened to you, Jehan? Who did this to you?"

He finished his drink. "Good question." He commented. "Well, allow me to start at the beginning; my capture during the battle."

* * *

As you know, I was stationed at the left-wing of the barricade with a small group of riflemen. Well, once all of my company were killed or captured in the first assault, I saw no harm in scaling the barricade and taking out as many soldiers as my rage and grief would let me. I am not proud of what I did then: I killed them with every weapon I could imagine, from bare fists to knives to empty rifles, and at least five men are now dead because of me. I really drew attention to myself when I stabbed a captain, and cut a large scar across his cheek. They were madder than hornets after that, if you remember, and before I could draw back they grabbed me down and sent me, kicked, beaten and shoved, into the dank alley where the prisoners of war were held.

I was reunited with three of my men there. They were workers, not students, but I'm sure you remember their names, especially you Feuilly: Luc Brasseur, Guy Lesurques, and Nicolas Courriol. We were chained like criminals to an iron ball, and our hands were bound severely. But we were able to talk to one another, and that was our only comfort for that long night.

I thought I knew them well, I admit it, but when they spoke to me then I could have sworn I was speaking to different people. Their fear was rampant, and they were constantly worried that at any moment the barricade would fall or the Guards would find enough time to spare to execute us. I offered them what little comfort I could, though I remember very little of what I said in our shared anxiety.

I do remember saying that if they were killed-which, if we lost, was certain-that they should die crying "Vive la Republique!" and "Vive l'avenir!", as a solace that they had died for something noble; a cause much bigger than themselves.

To which Lesurques responded "That will only glorify us in the eyes of our comrades; what about in the eyes of God? When we reach Heaven, what shall happen to us then? We will be viewed as martyrs, victims, or radicals? They say peace is everlasting in His kingdom, but will we have achieved peace inside us?"

I spent all night trying to answer that question, my friends, and I couldn't think of anything that would please us both in regards to that subject. And of course, in the early hours of the morning-today-the Guards, in a brief, respite, assigned some men to bring us out into their barracks and make ready to kill us. Of course they took Lesurques first. I asked Brasseur "why him?". He said that Lesurques' father had been drafted into the army and then killed at Waterloo, and that Guy would sworn to his mother that he would try to avenge his death by fighting in the revolution. What an empty vow that was!

Poor Brasseur was next, and then Courriol, both of whom went almost solemn to their deaths. They took my advice in the end, and the cry "Vive la Republique!" sounded mournfully twice.

They'd brought me out to the wall and were tying the bag around my head, old friends, when that god-sent messenger arrived. I overheard what he told the commander, and I fairly whooped with joy. I was going to live! I half-expected to be set free on the spot, but what does that pompous, moustached buffoon of a commander do? He brings me with him, like a master and his dog, to the Palais de Justice, since my execution is now such a controversial decision.

The commander left me with some of his lackeys in a room in the Palais for a while, none of whom I'd seen fighting and none of whom were quite sober. They'd been told by that shifty inspector, Beauvais, that Javert was being held captive, so they asked me where he was so they could get him. I refused. I said that Javert was an attempted murderer, and if the new Republic was just he would hang tomorrow for his crime.

They didn't like that, let me tell you. They tried to convince me; if I told them, they'd let me to go back to Rue Saint-Denis, no fuss at all. More likely they would slit my throat on the way there. I was adamant in my refusal, and one of them, Saint-Ange, got angry. He pounced on me, and it took both of his friends to drag him away from me. He beat me bad, I have to say; the results are right in front of you.

The commander came back, and nearly blew a gasket when he saw the state I was in. He yelled furiously at Saint-Ange, explaining that I was an Ami de l'Abaisse and should be treated as a restorer of France. Fed to him by his new superiors, certainly, but he was definitely angry with my wounds.

The Guards left-I didn't care where-and left me there with meager food and less water. I was too exhausted, both by dehydration and Saint-Ange's work, to even attempted escape, for the door was surely locked.

At last, a man named Renard came to see me, and introduced himself as one of the new Consuls. He apologized for Monsieur Saint-Ange's treatment of me, said that I was no longer to be executed and that I was free to go. He also told me that if I wanted to rejoin my friends, I would find them at the Cafe Musain. And so I went.

* * *

They were all staring in pure bewilderment at Prouvaire, calmly recounting his story as he ate a small dinner and several glasses of wine. He noticed their blank expressions, and a trace of his old grin came back. "Oh, cheer up, my friends. The revolution is over, and we've come out against all odds on top. Let us try and take a little enjoyment out of our deeds and sufferings."

Enjolras readily agreed, and soon enough they were all telling Jehan excitedly about what they'd been doing since this morning, and what they hoped for the new Republic. Marius thought it very unusual to hear his friends speak of the republic no longer as an idea that was merely plausible, but as something that was real and could be made. And that made him smile.

After listening to them for a while, Prouvaire began to lose focus. He started humming a sad tune, and Joly asked him what it was. He smiled sadly, and said:

"It is a poem I created after Lesurques was killed. I'd thought a lot about his last words to me before I was brought to the Palais: "_They say peace is everlasting in His kingdom, but will we have achieved peace inside us?_" So I conjured up a few verses that might go along with that question, and as a way to remember those poor trio of souls."

"I hope you don't plan on telling it to us." Enjolras moaned.

Jehan laughed. "We've all been through hell, my good Apollo, but I'm the only one who's passed through the fires. Allow me this one small favor, please."

Shrugging, Enjolras conceded. Jehan began to recite, and his words carried them through the dark remainder of the evening.

_I'm thinking of friends whom I used to know,_  
_Who lived and suffered in this world below._  
_They're gone off to heaven, but I want to know_  
_What are they doing there now?__  
_

_There's some whose hearts were burdened with care._  
_They spent their moment so frightened and scared._  
_They clung to the cross with trembling and fear._  
_Oh, what are they doing there now?_

_Oh, what are they doing in heaven today?_  
_Where sin and sorrow have all gone away?_  
_Peace is found like a river they say._  
_Oh, what are they doing there now?_

_There's some who were poor and often despised._  
_They looked up towards heaven with tear-blinded eyes._  
_With people heedless and deaf to their cries._  
_Oh, what are they doing there now?_

_Oh, what are they doing in heaven today?_  
_Where sin and sorrow have all gone away?_  
_Peace is found like a river they say._  
_Oh, what are they doing there now?_


	10. A Life Burnt Away & A Charity Performed

**A/N: *AUGH*! I'm so sorry, everyone, for being such a bad updater! The best way I can sum up the reason for my many delays is that the "fall -time monster", filled with limitless homework, tests and projects, hath (yes, I just said hath) reared its ugly head at me, and reared it quite effectively. I can only hope this newest chapter is enough to make up for all the waiting I've put you through.**

* * *

**June 8, 1832**

**Chapter 10: A Life Burnt Away & A Charity Performed**

Azelma helped guide Éponine up the flight of stairs that led to their garret, which made her feel uncomfortably like an invalid. Even though the pain in her shoulder had gradually decreased, with both her and Gavroche wounded Azelma was very much in the mindset that her siblings would shatter like glass if handled too roughly.

She'd spent the night at Rue Plumet, with Cosette, M. Fauchelevent, Gavroche and Azelma. She'd offered her sister the choice of going back to Rue Saint-Denis, to be with their mother, but she refused, adamantly wanting to stay with her. Éponine couldn't remember the last time her sister had been so protective of her; in the old days, it was always the other way around, with Éponine defending her from the likes of their father and his equally wicked friends.

The Corinthe was empty today. The revolutionaries had dispersed, and the Grosjean family was struggling to clean up their wine-shop. Bullet holes riddled the walls and windows, and here and there on the floor were drops of blood from the wounded rebels. Éponine had offered to help them-she was well acquainted with housework-but Madame Grosjean had kindly turned her down. "You've done enough these past three days, my dear." She said. "Let Charles and I do our part now."

They reached the top of the stairs, and found Madame Thenardier sitting on a stool outside the door.

"Maman!" Éponine cried, and tearing herself from Azelma's arm she hugged her mother fiercely. "You lived!"

"So I did." She said plainly, but a rare grin was spreading across her face. "But it's a greater miracle that _you're _alive. Not many people survive a bullet through the shoulder without becoming crippled, or worse."_  
_

Éponine laughed, the kind of laugh people give when they think of something so ludicrous that it could never happen to them. "Count me in with the lucky ones, then. Is the garret unlocked?"

Her mother nodded. "It is. But it took a lot of damage in the fighting, I'm afraid. One of the windows was pierced by several bullets before being shattered by a cannonball. I've swept up broken glass all afternoon. I still haven't the cannonball out, it's too dashed heavy.

"A cannonball?!" Azelma cried excitedly. "I want to see that!" And, taking Éponine's arm once again, she led her into their garret.

Considering it had been through a miniature war, the room looked remarkably tidy. Their beds were the same as they had left them, and despite some extra cracks in the wood, the only new addition to the decor was a black iron ball, no bigger than a large duck.

Azelma crept up to the orb. "It's so big." She whispered. "We should keep it."

"Keep it?" Éponine repeated, incredulous. "You can sleep with a cannonball next to your bed if you want, but leave me out of it."

"Come one, 'Ponine. It would a great reminder of the revolution."

"I have my reminder, thanks." Said Éponine, and she traced her shoulder, where a small white scar still lay. "We have to get rid out it. And we need to figure out something intelligent, because Madame Grosjean isn't going to let us roll it down the stairs."

Her sister didn't respond. She continued to stare, mute, at the cannonball.

"'Zelma? Are you even listening to me?" She asked, a bit irritated.

"What's this black stuff?" Azelma asked randomly.

"What are you talking about?" Éponine asked.

"There is this gritty black dust coming out of the ball. It smells funny."

At those words, Éponine became curious. She took a candle of the mantelpiece, for the room was dark and the windows shut, to see what her sister was talking about.

She got down on her knees and held the candles a few inches above the floor. Azelma was right; scattered around the ball, like a pile of ash, was a sparkly collection of black-colored powder.

Éponine poked the cannonball, and it rolled forward a few feet. There was a small crack in its side, and out of it leaked more black powder.

Now she was scared. Very, _very _scared.

"Azelma," She said urgently, her voice low. "This is gunpowder. It's put into cannonballs so that they explode on impact. And if it catches fire, it can burn down almost anything."

"So?"

Éponine pointed to the candle-the lit candle-clutched tightly in her left hand. "We're also in a wooden room, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh." Azelma said quietly. "Well, let's get out of here, and go tell Mama to sweep up the powder too."

Carefully as mice, the two of them stood up. Azelma turned to face the door. Éponine moved to do the same-

When her foot caught on her dress, and she stumbled. Her grip became less firm, and the candle fell from her hand.

Time slowed down. Afterwards, all Éponine could remember was Azelma's shriek of fear at the flaming column of fire, and Maman calling for Monsieur and Madame Grosjean for water, and watching her new life-her fragile, beloved new life-slowly turn into ash.

* * *

**The next day**

Jean Valjean sat down at the table at last with his breakfast. He'd had quite the shock this morning when Marius, beaming and carrying an exquisite English bouquet of flowers, had shown up at the front door and asked for Cosette. His fiancée had appeared from her sleep at his call, and they were sitting outside in the garden, entranced by nothing save each other.

He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. Once Cosette was married, she would move into Marius's grandfather's house at Rue des Filles du Calvaire who, after a brief reunion with his now famous grandson, was only to happy to accept Marius and his step-granddaughter-to-be. Valjean himself was asked to come and live there as well, but he declined. Cosette was no longer his to look after, and as far as he was concerned, the Gillenormand house was no place of sanction for him.

But that didn't make the prospect of moving to Rue de l'Homme Arme, Number 5-a small, rather dingy apartment by memory-any more exciting.

Valjean was almost finished with his oatmeal when the doorbell rang, and little Gavroche flew down the stairs in excitement. "I'll get it!" He yelled.

He smiled. Gavroche had told him that he planned to leave Rue Plumet soon and return home to his brothers, but in the meantime he was quite content with life here.

The boy opened the door, and gasped in delight. "Well, if it isn't Éponine of the nine lives!" He said laughingly. "How are you, dear sister?"

"Just fine, 'Vroche." The voice of the gamine replied. "May I come?"

Gavroche let her inside, and she walked into the kitchen where Jean Valjean was. There was a look of worry on her face that Valjean had not seen before.

"Can I help you with something, Éponine?" He asked.

She nodded. "Yes, monsieur. I was wondering if I could stay here at Rue Plumet again tonight."

Valjean blinked in surprise. "Well, all right. I don't see any harm in that. Is there anything you need?"

"If you've got it, I could use three beds, two sets of women's clothes, a week's worth of food, and more money than any sane man is likely to give."

He arched an eyebrow. Valjean was generous, but he wasn't stupid. "And I'm supposed to believe this is all meant only for you, no?"

She shook her head in embarrassment, like a child caught misbehaving. "No, monsieur. It's for my sister as well. And my mother."

"Why? Has something happened?"

Éponine chuckled nervously, with the air of a person trying to make light of someone tragic. "You could say that. Our garret that we rent, in the Corinthe, it was...incinerated."

A heavy pause fell between them.

"Incinerated." Jean Valjean repeated.

"Yes, incinerated." The girl repeated. "It's all burnt up like a crisp, and now the world knows not to place candles near black powder."

_'I think it knows that already._' Valjean thought, but he kept his mouth shut. He stood up, and looked down at Éponine. Though she tried to hide it, Valjean could see small signs of discomfort within her; her cast-down head, her quietness, her fingers clutching the folds of her dress tightly. Despite living in poverty for so long, the concept of asking for charity, at least upfront, was very new to her, and she didn't like it one bit.

Valjean knew that if he gave Éponine what she wanted, she would accept it, but she would treat it more as a gift than an honest reward. But neither could he turn away these three women in desperate need, without so much as a breadcrumb. What was he to do?

He paced about the table, thinking. Éponine watched him with great anxiety, wondering what he would say. Finally, Jean Valjean thought of a medium solution that looked as though it might work.

"I'm going to do something better than a one-night stay, Éponine." He said, a touch of pride in his voice. "I'm going to let the three of you live here, with me."

Whatever Éponine had expected, it wasn't that. Her jaw dropped, and she gestured dumbly about the room. "You mean, as in..._here_? Rue Plumet?"

"Yes, of course."

"But why, monsieur? Why would you want to do that?"

"It's quite simple, really." Valjean said. "In about a month's time, Cosette will be married and living with Marius in his own house. I will not be joining them."

"But...but," Éponine stammered. "Marius said you were leaving Rue Plumet. Into some new apartment, no?"

"Rue de l'Homme Arme?" Valjan exclaimed, laughing. "It makes a very fine water closet, but not much of a home. No. If I'm going to have three tenants-for tenants you shall be, as I know neither you nor your mother would accept free room and board-then I think I will stay here. Your brother seems to enjoy my being around, for one thing."

Éponine managed a grin. Then she stood up, and engulfed Jean Valjean in a leaping hug. She drew away awkwardly after a few moments, but she was still smiling. "How is it that you are unwaveringly good, Monsieur Fauchelevent?"

It would not be easy to explain seventeen years of change in a moment, so Valjean said something kind and simple. "Because long ago, I was a much different person than I am now." He said. "A much worse person. But if helping innocent people such as yourself, your family, and Cosette is the road to virture...well, it's not that hard after all, really."

She embraced him again in gratitude, and ran off into the hall to play with Gavroche. Jean Valjean sat back down in his chair, smiling at the idea that he may not be so alone after all.

It was such a perfect time, and the sun shone so strong, that no one could see storm-clouds gathering in the distance, growing until they burst.


End file.
